Man Crush Monday Page 3

  I frown down at them and realise, yep, they are. “Okay, not-so-lucky shorts.” I toss them over my shoulder and reach for the next thing—a black dress with long sleeves. I hold it up and raise an eyebrow.

  “You wore that to my aunt Lizzie’s funeral.”

  I sigh and toss that too. Setting my hands on my hips, I groan in defeat. Heather and I do not have the same taste, like, at all. She’s all girlie girl who likes figure-hugging bodycon dresses. I’m more dungarees and belly tops or retro T-shirts, but if I don’t pick something soon, I’ll be going out in the sexy black lacy underwear I’m currently sporting.

  “Okay, fine. Show me what you’ve got.”

  She grins, clapping her hands and moving the cereal box to my sideboard where crumbs scatter over my alarm clock. I jump when I see the time glowing there. It’s 7:42. Jared texted me at lunchtime to say he would pick me up at eight.

  “Shit, I need to pick something now! He’s going to be here in less than twenty minutes!” My hand shoots up to my neck, and I grip the pendant that’s on my necklace, rubbing my thumb over it as I watch Heather pick up a black bin bag full of clothes and upend it onto my bed with all my stuff. As I thought, it’s all slinky numbers and nothing like what I usually wear. I frown and push my hand through the pile. A red-and-black-chequered T-shirt dress catches my eye.

  “I bought that by accident—impulse buy; it was on sale, and I left it too late to return it,” she says, still looking through the pile for something more suitable.

  I make a dive for it and hold it up against myself.

  Short sleeves. Mid-thigh. Pockets. Win!

  “Ooh, I like this!” I say, already unzipping it at the neck and widening the opening so I can fit it over my hair that I painstakingly teased into loose beach waves for the last half an hour. The dress skims my body perfectly, fitted at the top to emphasize the girls, cinching in at the waist to show off my curves. “I really like this.” I turn back to the mirror, examining myself.

  Heather comes up behind me, ripping off the tags and zipping me up. “Pair of black tights to make it more you and then … fucking gorgeous.” She grins at me in the mirror.

  She’s almost as excited about this date as I am. She’s been listening to me talk about this guy for months now. She came straight over after work and has been helping me get ready for the last couple of hours. She is the best wingwoman a girl could ask for.

  I pat her hand that rests on my shoulder and then slip away, over to my underwear drawer, where I pull out a pair of thick black tights. I sit on the chair to slide them up my legs, doing a little shimmy to sort the waist out.

  In my wardrobe, I slide my eyes over my numerous pairs of Converse and then settle on the black-and-white ones.

  “Oh no, come on. Trainers, really? How about a nice pair of heels instead?” Heather suggests as I slip my feet into them.

  “No way. I’m already more dressed up than usual. I at least want to feel a little bit like myself. Heels will just make me more nervous too.”

  I bend and lace my Converse while she groans in defeat. When I stand and look back at my room, I grimace. It looks like the entire contents of a sewing factory threw up over it. There are clothes and jewellery everywhere, covering every inch of my bed, tumbling onto the floor. My eyes skim back to the clock—7:51.

  “Shit! Hev, while I’m gone, can you …” I wave my hand at the clothes and look at her in blind panic. “What if I want to bring him back here later? OMG.” I grab a pile of shorts and unceremoniously dump them into the dresser, poking them and prodding them until I can get the drawer closed.

  She makes a noise somewhere between a snort and a groan and shakes her head. “Oh no, you do not want to have sex with him tonight!”

  “Uh, yeah, I do.” I’ve been fantasising about it for months now.

  Heather adamantly shakes her head and picks up three of my dresses that she said were too “out there” for a first date. (I’m not sure what out there means—doesn’t everyone like Space Jam? And a Space Jam dress? Hello? Awesome!)

  “No. No sex tonight. You want him to come back for more. Just give him a taste, chum the waters, bait the hook, and then—bam—reel him in,” she says, hanging my clothes.

  “Fishing metaphors? Seriously, stop watching that Wicked Tuna programme!” I roll my eyes.

  She laughs but doesn’t have time to answer because the doorbell rings.

  My eyes widen when I notice he’s early. “Bugger.”

  My body is suddenly a mess of nerves. My hands flutter to the hem of the dress, absentmindedly smoothing the skirt as I take a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm my racing heart.

  What was I thinking? I can’t do this! I can barely talk to the guy, let alone be alone on a date with him over dinner. This is sure to end in disaster.

  “I want to see.” Heather darts from the room.

  I suddenly panic and run after her, racing her to the door, scared of what she’ll say to him. She gets there first, but I press my hand against the door and shake my head. But she’s not going for the handle; she’s already squinting one eye at the peephole.

  “Holy shit. He looks like Ryan Reynolds and Nick Jonas had a baby!”

  “Right?” I chuckle and find my small black handbag, tucking my phone into it. “Christ, I’m nervous,” I whisper.

  She smiles, placing a hand on my shoulder. “You’ll be fine. You look like a knockout. Just breathe, be calm, and don’t order the spaghetti.”

  I frown. “Why can’t I order the spaghetti?”

  She knows it’s my favourite, and Jared already suggested the Italian place not far from me when he messaged earlier.

  One of her eyebrows rises, and her lips press into a thin line. I nod in understanding. No one looks sexy while eating spaghetti—well, maybe Shawn Mendes would, but that’s just because he’s an alien.

  “No spaghetti—got it,” I agree.

  I place my hand on the lock as she steps behind the door, out of sight.

  “Oh, and, Amy, don’t mention anything about you crushing on him all this time. Just keep that to yourself. Pretend like you barely even remember him from the train. Better yet, don’t even mention seeing him on the train unless he brings it up. And definitely don’t tell him you fell in love with him while he was doing magic.” She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. Heather does not agree with my opinion that dorks are sexy. “Be cool.”

  Be cool. Don’t mention I’m crazy for him. No spaghetti. I got this.

  I pull open the door, and when he smiles down at me, all sexy eyes and straight teeth, all thoughts of being cool are long gone.

  “Fuck. Well, I just came,” I blurt, and then my eyes widen in horror at what I just said.

  “That was easy,” he deadpans, cocking an eyebrow at me before we both burst out laughing.

  Behind the door, I hear Heather groan and slap her palm against her forehead.

  four

  I thought he looked hot in a suit, but this … this is something else.

  The casual look really works for him. Chunky black combat boots, loose and stylish; light-blue jeans covering long legs, just tight enough to make my thighs clench with a promise of what’s underneath; a plain, soft-looking white T-shirt stretched over a broad chest. This is the first time I’ve seen him without a suit jacket, and his toned, tanned arms draw my attention. I imagine them wrapping around me, the feel of his skin against mine. I long to reach out and touch him. His smile is killer and will keep any girl up at night. And his laugh … my God, I’m already done for the night, and we haven’t even left the doorstep.

  He’s too hot to be standing in the dingy hallway with its peeling paint, questionable stain on the ceiling, and my worn welcome mat that Heather bought me as a housewarming gift that reads, Did you bring margaritas? He’s in direct contrast with his surroundings. He’s all beautiful and clean, and the communal stairwell that leads to my first-floor flat is … anything but.

  I wince and shake my head at myself.
“What I meant to say was, hi.”

  One side of his mouth quirks up. “Hi.”

  As he holds out a bunch of pale pink roses, my insides thrum with pleasure.

  “Got you these. They reminded me of you.” His eyes flick to my hair and back down to my face.

  I bite my bottom lip as I take them. “Thank you. They’re lovely.”

  “You look amazing,” he says.

  When I look up from the flowers, I catch him in mid-examination, his eyes doing a slow sweep of my body, his jaw flexing with tension.

  I hide my satisfied grin by burying my face in the flowers, inhaling their sweet perfume. “As do you, obviously. But I’m sure you got that from my earlier comment.” I nod awkwardly and shift on my feet, looking anywhere but at him.

  He laughs again, that deep, throaty chuckle that makes the hair on my arms stand up. Thankfully, he chooses not to embarrass me further. “Are you ready to go? I’m a little early. I can wait …” He trails off, but I shake my head.

  “I’m ready. Let me just put these inside.” I step back, the door bumping me as I shoulder it open and deliberately close it a little behind me, so he doesn’t follow me in.

  Heather rolls her eyes. “That was not being cool.”

  “Tell me about it!” I stage-whisper, handing her the flowers. “Vase in the kitchen. Thanks. Love you. I’ll call you later … unless I’m too busy.” I suggestively waggle my eyebrows.

  She adamantly shakes her head. “No sex. Bait the hook, and keep him coming back.”

  I sigh in defeat but know she’s right. If I have sex with him tonight, I’ll likely never see him again. Well, until the next time on the train, and then that’ll be uber awkward.

  Picking up my handbag, I blow her a kiss. “Wish me luck.”

  She grins and crosses the fingers on her free hand, winking at me.

  Jared is casually leaning against the wall outside my flat, one ankle crossed over the other, his long fingers tangled with each other. My eyes drink him in again—the flat stomach, the way the T-shirt fits across his pecs and falls looser to his waist. The material of it looks so soft that my fingers ache to reach out and touch it, to fist it up and yank his body closer to mine. I gulp, trying to douse my lust but it’s hard, oh-so hard.

  He straightens as I step out and moves to my side as we both head down the flight of stairs to the front door of my apartment block.

  “Do you like Italian? You didn’t say no, so I’m assuming you do, but we can go somewhere else if you prefer?” he asks as he leads me over to a sleek, expensive-looking black sports car.

  “I love it.” I beam with thanks as he opens the door for me, and I slide in.

  As he walks around to his side, I settle into the soft leather seat and inhale. The car smells clean with a subtle undertone of his aftershave. I take my chance to look around, to learn some juicy gossip about him. But the car gives nothing away; there are no clues, no sweet wrappers or discarded bottles of drink or newspapers. Actually, there’s nothing at all, and that is telling in itself. The inside of his car is spotlessly clean. If it wasn’t for the bag of sugar-free strawberry boiled sweets tucked into the cupholder, I would assume this car was brand-new and unused.

  He eases into the driver’s seat, starting the engine with a sexy purr that sounds expensive. As he drives us to the restaurant, I squirm in my seat, my body hyperaware of how close his hand is to my thigh whenever he changes gear. My pulse is thumping in my ears, and I try to discreetly wipe my clammy palms on my skirt.

  “So, how was your day? Did it get any better after some random bloke spilled coffee all over you?” he asks.

  I shrug and turn a little in my seat, so I can watch him on the sly. “Nope. That was the highlight of my day actually.”

  “Pretty shitty day then.” He purses his lips and nods solemnly.

  “Pretty shitty,” I agree, though truth be told, it was one of my better ones.

  I’d been dreaming about speaking to him properly for months, and today, I spoke to him, and we are now out on a date. This is easily the highlight of my year.

  The drive is only a couple of minutes, and he expertly glides into a parking space a little way away from the restaurant. I smile up at the red awning over the restaurant door as I exit the car. I’ve never actually eaten in here before but heard it is good. I’ve been in the cocktail bar upstairs once though; Heather and I were blind drunk, and I vomited into the bin. Hopefully, they won’t recognise me.

  His eyes meet mine as I wait for him to reach my side of the car. He’s so close; his hands fiddle with the keys as we walk towards the restaurant. He reaches out and opens the door for me, motioning for me to go in first, and a little thrill runs through me at the gentlemanly gesture.

  As we step in, it’s like sensory overload. The smells coming from the place make my mouth water, the lighting is soft, and the music playing quietly in the background is subtle enough that you can talk. It’s a very romantic place.

  Jared steps to my side.

  The greeter smiles over at us as Jared tells him he’s booked a table for two.

  “Follow me, please.”

  The greeter heads off into the restaurant, and as we follow, Jared sets a hand on the small of my back. It’s such a small gesture, the tiniest touch, but I have to use all of my focus to keep myself walking in a straight line and to not turn and pounce on him. Screw food. All I want is to take him back to my apartment, strip him out of his clothes, and run my fingertips and tongue across every inch of him. My body is alight just from the barest touch. I can’t even imagine how I’d cope if he touched me for real. I’d probably spontaneously combust.

  When Jared pulls out a swanky leather chair for me, I sink into it and suck in a ragged breath. He slips into the seat opposite mine, our eyes meet and hold as his lips part, and somehow, I can tell he’s feeling this too—this sexual tension that’s consuming me and causing tummy flutters. And the room fades away. I could be anywhere, and I wouldn’t care as long as those whiskey eyes never left mine.

  The greeter sets down a menu in front of each of us, breaking the eye contact, and I’m back in the room again.

  “Your waitress will be over in a few minutes to take your order. Can I get you some drinks, or would you like to look at the wine list?”

  I clear my throat, hoping my voice won’t come out as a ball of lust as I order a large glass of rosé. Jared orders a Diet Coke because he’s driving.

  Get a grip, Amy! Breathe.

  I force myself to look down at the menu, trying to focus, but all I can think about is the warm spot on my lower back where his hand was. “Everything looks so good,” I say, trying to quash the lustful feelings I’m still having.

  Jared nods in agreement, and when the waitress comes over with our drinks, he leans back, not even noticing that her eyes linger on him for a split second too long. We order our food—tomato and basil pasta for me, chicken parmigiana and a green salad for Jared.

  When we’re finally alone again, I seize the opportunity to ask all the questions I’ve wanted to ask for the last five months.

  “So, how old are you, Jared?” I pick up my glass and take a small sip, knowing I need to take it easy on the booze tonight. When I drink too much, I talk too much, and that really isn’t going to help my trying to keep it cool image.

  “I just recently turned twenty-eight. You?”

  Perfect. I guessed he was around my age.

  “Twenty-four.” I smile. “You already know I work on the trains, but I don’t know what you do.”

  I’ve always wondered this. He dresses impeccably for work, goes to London every other Monday, and always carries a briefcase. Now, I know he has an expensive, sleek car. I always assumed he’s some sort of architect, designer, or something that involves being arty because I’ve seen him scribbling drawings into a notebook on occasion.

  “I work for Jenkins and Banner. They’re a PR company, and I’m chief advertising strategist. It’s mostly finance, budgets, pr
ojections, calculating marketing trends and return on investment—that kind of thing.”

  Finance. So, he is math nerdy instead of art nerdy.

  “Do you like it?”

  He nods. “Yeah. I’ve only been there a year. It’s a little different to what I thought it would be. There are a lot of changes I want to make, but it’s hard to get anywhere when there’s a board of directors shooting your proposals down without even looking at them. Plus, we’re currently going through a huge company merger, so there are loads of negotiations and projections I’ve had to get involved in. Not really my job, but I’ve been drafted in to oversee things there.”

  He takes a swig of his drink, and I watch his throat bob. It’s sexy. He’s talking about board members and mergers, and what can I say? I like that shit. It’s my sweet spot. Weird, I know.

  “Sounds stressful. What do you like to do to unwind in your spare time?”

  He reaches up and runs a hand through his hair. “I’ll be honest; lately, I’ve barely had any spare time. Things are just a little crazy with work. When I do get spare time, I guess I spend it with friends and family or watch movies. I go watch Cambridge United occasionally. I also like to learn different languages.”

  Intrigued, my eyebrow rises at that. “Really?”

  He nods, taking a sip of his drink. “Yeah. TV in the evening can be a bit naff sometimes, and I get bored easily, so I do online courses. Comes in handy with my job too, obviously.”

  “What languages can you speak?” My skin prickles with excitement as I wait.

  “French, Spanish, Italian.” He counts them off on his fingers. “This year, I’ve been learning Mandarin.”

  My stomach gives a little internal swoon, and my brain is instantly firing, wondering how I can get him to speak some French or Italian to me. I’m not sure I could think of anything sexier than that. He shrugs as if it’s nothing, as if teaching himself foreign languages in his spare time is a normal thing. I don’t think I’ve ever been more attracted to him.

  “I also love live music, but I guess I don’t really have any official hobbies. What about you?”